


Carnivale

by Ozma



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ascian, BLU, Canon-Typical Violence, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: 4.5; Embracing the role of "Great Azuro the Second," the Warrior of Light takes to the stage.But the Carnivale is, after all, theatre, and attracting the attention of passionate fans is an inevitability.





	Carnivale

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to Zahira for her support.

For a dance of magicks, you’ve better boots.

Stiff and unbending, the faint crunch of new leather is present in every step, chafing at your thighs.  Once worn, they’ll suffice, even if the make is not the quality you’re accustomed to.

It’ll all suffice, for proper pay, anonymity, and a chance to stretch your talents using dangerously familiar skills otherwise unwieldable by mortals.

The gloves are much the same, hindering dexterity, but even with – or perhaps because of – such limitations, the crowd’s breath eagerly hitches as your cane snaps easily around your wrist. Pointing to the beast at flourish’s peak, a wall of wind billows about you as the ground erupts at its feet, edging the crowd into a collective gasp, each beat of breath held until you can all but hear the simultaneous pound of hearts fluttering at your whim.

Compared to other work you’ve taken, the carnivale is harmless, naught but display.

A theatre, of sorts.

You’ve taken to challenging yourself; no longer is the audience sated by defeat alone and nor are you. Limiting spell selection, defeating foes quickly, using only particular elements, all are tools amplifying the drama.

Even the “Greats” are fallible, losing themselves to overconfidence, the whispers say, and often you wonder if people come just to see you fall.

They are inevitably bound for disappointment.

Laughter born of satisfaction bubbles in your chest as the wind fades away, naught but a rapid dance of leaps blowing your cape back and revealing your safety – and the growing collection of fallen beasts at your feet.

The arena stands empty; the Great Azuro the Second reigns victorious.

Lowering your cane to the floor, you offer a polite bow and mysterious smile – a showman’s necessity, Martyn once emphasized – to each side of the stage.

Even before you turn your back, the excited swell rises; already the crowd wants for more.

Costumed stagehands smother illuminating flames to darken the chamber, the rapid patter of their feet inaudible against the conversing crowd. ‘Tis impossible to discern what any individual is saying, save the eagerness of your title on their tongue.  Well aware of growing impatience brought upon by the intermission, the stagehands display practiced efficiency in preparing the next challenge, barely paying you any heed as they go about their duties.

Fallen foes replaced and topography altered, at last the torches are relit, the resulting wave of light nigh blinding after adjusting to the darkness. Apathetic to your harsh squints and rapid blinks, the announcer’s exuberance commands the room, bellowing a declaration of your next challenge before hastily fleeing offstage.

As untamed as a force of nature, the crowd roars in time with your clearing vision.

Slimes, always Slimes.

Suspiciously absent are traces of other foes; you’re well past being challenged by slimes alone, so mayhap another generator, hidden around the scattered obstacles.

Whips of aether – _tongues_ , a truth less than elegant – are expected of you with these, manipulating them to reach the puzzle’s intended conclusion.

The restless crowd shifts as you examine the puzzle, a distracting irritant while trying to focus.

Pushing is the safer option than pulling with unknown variables, best save the whips for more precise control. The aether plays at your hand and you breathe deeply, closing your eyes and steadying yourself for the rapid reactions a proper display requires.

Coursing the crowd, unified bated breath builds sharp, restless tension, each prolonged second punctuated with a piercing crackle of flame, your rapid breaths – _inout, inout_ \- the only evidence of time’s true passage.

Your eyes open to blackness.

A series of futile rapid blinks fails to stymie looming anxieties, and a smothering silence, absent all sound save the slimes’ squelching, justifies the pounding of your heart. 

Only the darkness moves. A blanket surrounding the stage, the blackness might well be an independent entity, twisting and warping, bending in serpentine ways naught but spells can conceive.

The visible writhing is proof enough of the shroud’s permeability; a simple purple aura illuminates even as it swallows fragments of light.  Such a familiar glow, one you’ve not seen for some time.

_“Screeech!”_

A disruptive, inhuman shriek forces you past thought and into action.  In the center of the stage, the darkness contorts, leaking black aether; half through a tiny tear, a voidsent wriggles. Struggling to pull itself through the veil’s rend, the creature fights against the star itself, its very existence rejected.   

You’ll not allow it; simultaneously a thunderous glare and strike assault the voidsent.  The attacks prove expectedly ineffectual; you’ve not the strength to easily defeat a moderately ranked voidsent when bound by the restrictions of the Blue Mage soul crystal. Its screeches of annoyance turn to anger, soulless black eyes refusing to leave its prey; agitated and unable to defend itself, the voidsent wriggles yet harder – and with more ease, your attack widening its already-growing rift.

You’d sooner not face an army; if additional aether stabilizes the rift, ‘tis best to leave it and await the voidsent’s manifestation.

Withdrawing sends the voidsent into a shrieking rage once more, but just below its rising call, for the first time since the wall’s erection, muffled, unintelligible voices break through the shroud; alarmingly calm, a deep, loud voice tries futilely to be heard above panic’s growing chorus of panic and rage.

Outside the walls, the situation must be dire indeed, yet no matter your will, the barrier of darkness proves impenetrable.  The veil permits naught but teases at the spectators’ fates, their visages obscured so that only the faintest outlines of fleeing shades are visible.  Through twisting darkness the shadows stumble, desperation only emphasized by faint screams of terror.

Yours might not be the only voidsent; if there’s to be hope for the citizenry, you must needs banish your foe quickly.

With a cry of success, the otherworldly beast unfurls its wings. Unaffected by the intruder's howls, the slimes expectedly make no move to interfere and your foe, in turn, pays them no heed; yours is the only aether the demon wishes to taste.

Its prey will not succumb easily.

Aether readily heeds your command; winds strong enough to push all but the largest and most stable beasts nigh knocks your off your feet, but to the intruder it might well be a gentle breeze.  Pushed back barely even an ilm, the demon’s pursuit proves relentless.  

Fire and ice, water and thunder – slashing, blunt, piercing – a relentless, varied barrage strikes true, yet all are equally futile.  All attacks are dramatically weakened against the voidsent’s toughened, stony hide.

Nay, the spells are not only weakened; no matter the skill or source, a blue mage’s magicks are fully ineffectual, each resulting in only irritated hisses and hastened approach. 

_Too close!_

With a curse, you throw yourself to the side, putting the topography between you, the full force of your weight landing on your shoulder as you skid across the rough stage.  The voidsent moves too quickly; you’ll not be able to flee the demon, nor can you hold it at bay forever.

Time is running out for any survivors.

Their screams are silent, but you’d sooner hear them – at least with voices you can be certain of the spectators’ fates; another moment dallying is another they’re at risk. Gritting your teeth and pushing yourself to your feet, you force back a persistent bubble of frustration.

Disregarding the sharp pain in your arm as you circle the obstacle, you only get a few paces before sliding to a stop, a large red slime wobbling precariously in warning in your path.

_Of course._

An epiphany that shouldn’t be, a solution that slipped your mind only in panic.

‘Tis so simple; you’ve done it countless times. This is your stage, no dark sorceries will infiltrate Ul’dah so long as you remain.

A whip of aether in hand, you pull the slime through and past the center of the arena, knowing full well the voracious voidsent will follow.

Follow it does, predictably easy to manipulate compared to the puzzles created as a challenge. It takes only a moment; the enemies all in place, another fierce gust of wind blows the slime back into the center of the arena. Kneeling as soon as the spell is finished, the floor erupts in flame, triggering the slimes’ explosions in rapid succession.

Too late do you recognize your mistake.

The slimes are not placed symmetrically, one far closer to your side of the arena, sneakily hidden beyond your line of sight by the topography – but still far too near.  In naught but a second understanding races through your consciousness and before you can even curse, you’re thrown back by the explosion with such force that the air leaves your lungs and your hat and mask fly off to the unknown.

Laying on your back, you gag and gasp, stomach retching from the blow’s force.  Your muscles burn and your shoulder will bruise, but you’ve won; the voidsent’s wingbeats dissipate and its screeches are silenced, the only casualty on stage is your attire. The slimes’ fleshy remains cling to your skin and hair, crawling up under your costume and making the cloth slide and squish about uncomfortably.

Rising to your knees demands great willpower, each sluggish movement eliciting a wince; scanning the arena, the veil of darkness at last subsides, revealing empty seating. With no casualties, the panic must have risen solely from the stage’s attack; yours was, fortuitously, the sole intruder.

“Bravo!” Through the silence, single a rousing cry accompanies enthusiastic clapping at your back. Spinning quickly reveals a tall man, suspiciously unperturbed by the chaos, resting his back against the topography.  “A splendid display.  I’d ask for an encore but ‘twould be a shame for me to be your only audience.”

Aye, a _splendid_ display.  Your chest heaves, innards cling to your hair and flesh, and sweat drips from your hairline; ‘tis closer to savagery than theatre. 

Tightly gripping your cane, the man – a Garlean with unfamiliar military trappings - approaches with a lazy, subtle swagger, his fingers playing at the smooth velveteen of the Great Azuro the Second’s hat and mask.

More important matters had been on your mind at the time than your costume; ‘tis far too late to worry about your identity being revealed.

Mere paces from you, the Garlean offers a sweeping bow, his golden eyes so bright they almost glow in the low light as he briefly meets your gaze, before returning an admiring stare to your hat.

Absently brushing your hair back in attempt to appear collected, you hold a hand out, expecting him to return it.

“A souvenir. The Great Azuro the Second’s mask for my private collection.” The simple explanation’s intent is clear enough.

“What is your game?” ‘Tis just a hat, you’ll have another commissioned, but the unknown observer’s flippancy sets your jaw aclench, as does his unnatural apathy.

“Game? Is this not a _theatre_?”  Entrapped within his passions, the Garlean takes in the entirety of the Celestium before returning his attentions to you. “And you’ve broken the most important rule of all.”

With dramatic flamboyance, he declares your guilt with an extended finger.

“What of it?” He speaks riddles, but the focused intensity of his attentions, somehow equally delicate, like a precious indulgence, catches your breath.  This man truly delights at commanding the stage.

He steps back, spreading his arms.

“Indulgence in the soul’s last explosive moments, tearing its restrictive veil and releasing its energies.” His theatrical bravado stops in an instant as he meets your eyes. “A crowd gives meaning to these beasts for the sole instant of struggle’s culmination, that they might finally come to serve a greater purpose.”

Regardless of his strange mannerisms, he’s not full wrong. There is some pleasure in the process - the swell of foreign memory as aether twines with yours, the satisfaction of success.

“So easily the void’s sorceries rise easily to your hand; there must be some twisted satisfaction in commanding the same skills of those you most loathe.”

 “What – “ With his free hand, the stranger looses a kerchief; silencing without words, the scent of anise fills the air as flawless white meets your upper lip. Dragging slowly – pointedly- with two fingers across your lips and onto your cheek, he flips the cloth with practiced ease before roaming back down and dragging at your lower lip, a clean, herb-scented trail in its wake. In his touch, a practiced smoothness that the strong muscle definition under his robes belies.

To worsen matters, your traitorous tongue trails his fingers over clean, dry lips.

“How does it feel?” There’s naught more to him than the faint caress of wispy breaths and the remnants of anise on his kerchief, but the rest of the room might well be unmade for all the Garlean dominates your senses. “You are ever so fond of absorbing aether.”

Though barely above a whisper, there is heaviness to his mannerisms, making it impossible to distinguish between appreciation, respect, or threat; before you can grasp his intent, the Garlean mercifully grants space, gracelessly diverting the subject.

“How fortuitous that the arena is deserted, that your identity remains a mystery as ‘tis intended.” He pauses briefly – unnecessarily – to shrug. “You should be thanking me.  The crowd’s adoration is a fickle thing; a mask should only be removed at the point of highest tension, a revelation to invoke the strongest emotion.”

How strongly this strange man relishes your reactions, drawing emotion from you like a most experienced artist.  

Once more the hand holding your hat sweeps out, long fingers illuminated easily by their pale trappings.

You follow it and from the corner of your eye, a shadow dances in the flickering firelight – naught more than an instantaneous distraction, but it sets your heart pounding all the same.

A single shadow.

Somehow, ‘tis no surprise that he is the one who did this.

The empty silence of the theatre is even heavier than the rapid beat of your heart in your ears.

He got close enough to touch you and he -

The absurdity of it almost makes you laugh, shattering earlier nervousness.

“Does one of your kind really have the time for a show such as _this_?”

“And if I asked the same of you?” A question for a question – you should have expected as much. Ascians are ever fond of their non-answers.  Unexpected of all experience, he continues. “Do you believe me so dull as my colleagues?  We’ve our preferences – and all the time in the world to indulge in them.”

You’ve naught to say to that; the servants of Darkness seem duty bound, disinterested in mortal distractions.  At your lack of response, he continues with a rich hint of amusement “How strange it must seem, to be admired by an Ascian.”

“’Tis not the first time.” Echoes of the Emissary’s flattery are faint as a dream after so long.

“Oh. . .?” Any of his satisfaction dissipates nigh immediately, the flamboyant tease of drama dropping from his demeanor, briefly revealing some deep displeasure below the façade.  “It seems a particular fool has left you with an unpleasant impression.”

“Multiple fools.” Chance, rather than foolishness, conspired against them, but you’d sooner not risk correcting him.

“Such dullards, lacking appreciation for the unfathomable.  This might be a distasteful, brutish circus, but yours is an act I am not wholly averse to. An amateur showmanship, inspiring with a unique flavor – if not entirely unfamiliar - of one who travels beyond the mortal realm. What else could I do, but raise the rewards and ensure your continued passion?”

Your breath catches; you’d been told that certain individuals pay great amounts to see you perform and that losing their patronage would be a major hit for the Celestium’s performance quality.  ‘Tis also true that you are well paid, but you’d not expected. . .

 - from _an Ascian_.

Retorts fail to form and for an instant you’re half tempted to thank him, but sanity quickly overcomes madness and you push the thought from your mind.

“Mayhap you’ll grant another private performance in the future.”

With a dismissive promise, the Ascian turns away; no dark magicks rise to his hand, no beasts appear in his wake, just the beat of footsteps echoing through the vast, empty theatre.

“Sir, sir!  You must evacuate” A panicked usher rushes in – far too late - pushing the stray ‘Garlean’ towards the exit before turning his attentions to you.

Their brief exchange is below your hearing from the distance, but the Ascian doesn’t turn back to you.

He doesn’t need to.

You know you’ll see him again – mayhap even at your next performance.

Next time, you’ll be watching.


End file.
